


Dear Friend

by Laural_Rose



Series: Poetry in Prose [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221a, 221b, Character Study, Fluff, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-29 16:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3902608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laural_Rose/pseuds/Laural_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being friends with Sherlock Holmes is rarely easy. But it’s also usually worth it.</p><p>A series of one shots exploring the costs and benefits of associating with Sherlock, each inspired by Shakespeare’s Sonnet 30.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had to memorize this Sonnet in high school and it’s stayed with me.
> 
> Aside: This fic was not Brit-picked (I'm from the other Birmingham), and not beta-ed. If you catch a mistake, PLEASE comment so I can fix it.

Sonnet 30

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought  
I summon up remembrance of things past,  
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,  
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:  
Then can I drown an eye, unus’d to flow,  
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,  
And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,  
And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight:  
Then can I grieve at grievances forgone,  
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er  
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,  
Which I new pay as if not paid before.  
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,  
All losses are restor’d and sorrows end.

William Shakespeare


	2. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this poem resonates with John really well, and with the baggage he obviously carries, and how that affects his interactions with other people. Sherlock is both the balm to his wounded spirit and the wind to his wings, lifting him back up into the currents and thermals of life, returning him to the hunt he was born for, and to me, this sonnet captures a lot of that.
> 
> This chapter is based off John’s blog post, post series/season 1  
> http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/01may

John was having a crap day. He ached – his tosser of a flatmate had dragged him out of a nightmare at three in the morning to scale a bloody building to catch a thief, and John’s shoulder was screaming shooting-pain obscenities at him. He could barely walk – not psychosomatic this time, but some bastard with a crowbar; his knee would heal, eventually, but it didn’t much fancy him at the moment. And the clinic had been a nightmare. He’d never seen so many hypochondriacs in one day, and was seriously considering having Sherlock test the water supply for… some illicit substance that would explain the explosion of bellyachers. And, of course the patients that legitimately needed a medical doctor instead of a shrink belonged in A&E.

It was a hell of a welcome home from New Zealand.

And to top it all off, Sarah had broken up with him. He’d really liked Sarah. Felt terrible about dragging her into mortal peril, of course, but if things had been different…

Most days it was worth it, he knew that in his head, but he couldn’t always remember why.

With a weary sigh, he opened the fridge, bracing himself for whatever bizarre additions Sherlock might have begged off Molly, and, after an incredulous pause, found himself giggling in wonderment.

Sherlock had bought beer.


	3. Greg and Mycroft

Greg got the call when he was pacing the beach. He and Libby had finally given up, for good this time. He’d given her his wedding band. He certainly didn’t need it anymore. He never would again, he suspected.

Despite the fact that this ‘holiday’ marked the end of a two-decade long marriage – or, the final goodbye of a three-year separation, more like– he found himself thinking far more about Sherlock than the wife who’d betrayed him. It was a little like the deathbed vigil of someone suffering from a terminal disease. You start the grieving process so long before the person passes, that by the time they’re gone, you’ve already mourned them.

Sherlock had been right, damn him. Sherlock had made him doubt, at that damn party. Greg wasn’t sure if he should thank the bastard or wring his obnoxiously hyper-observant neck. 

Greg’s pocket vibrated. The hair raised on the back on his neck. The number was blocked, which meant Mycroft. And that meant this was to do with Sherlock. Sherlock, who couldn’t leave it alone. Sherlock, who always saw too much. Sherlock, who was so fragile for all his self-confidence.

He contemplated tossing his mobile in the ocean. Much as he liked Sherlock, he needed this time, this space. He wasn’t ready for Holmsian drama to drag him back.

“What the hell do you want, Holmes? I’m on holiday!”

“I appreciate that, detective inspector,” Mycroft’s voice, usually brisk-yet-pleasant, was clipped with impatience. “But this is something of an emergency. Sherlock has broken into a top-secret government facility while tracking a killer.” 

“Straight to the point? That’s not like you.” Of course Greg was worried, but what could he, a lowly DI, do? Mycroft had all the connections.

“No, and Dr. Watson has informed me my brother’s been very unlike himself, as well.” Holmes sniffed.

Greg wanted to laugh.

“What, poking his nose where it doesn’t belong, steamrolling anything in his path, expecting the world to bow to his wishes, not caring about consequences or procedures or jurisdictions provided he solves his case? That sounds very like Sherlock to me.”

Mycroft sighed.

“He’s encountered something that… Dr. Watson described his reaction as ‘terrified’. I don’t know what caused it, but you must understand something – John called me.”

Greg’s mouth went dry. His mind boggled trying to imagine what Sherlock Holmes could possibly fear. He barely managed a coherent reply.

“Sherlock? Scared?”

“So I am told.” Mycroft seemed serene, but Greg knew the Holmes brothers by now. Mycroft was tense, possibly even nervous.

Greg took a deep breath. Centered. Let it out slowly.

“Where am I going?”

“The facility is called Baskerville.”


	4. Irene

Sherlock Holmes was many things: a naïve, virginal white knight; a calculatingly cold, scientifically minded problem solver; a hyperactive man-child with a love for puzzles. It was her job to cater to people of every physical description, and she was a professional. The body alone, however symmetrical, didn’t excite her. No, a person needed to be so much more than merely pretty to catch her notice.

He’d caused her a good deal of trouble. Oh, some of it was planned for, but still, it wasn’t easy to fake a death well enough to fool the Ice-Man Holmes. Come to that, it wasn’t easy to slide out of a window wearing nothing but a coat.

The most troubling part was, when she came back, it wasn’t all an act. She liked breaking rules, but not her own. 

She was a professional.

She ran the scene, while letting her clients believe she was an extension of their fantasy. That’s what made her The Woman. She was always in control, even when her clients thought of her as a service they contracted, like their secretary or their maid. 

She didn’t get involved. 

 

But with him, it was different. He intrigued her. Infuriated her. Excited her.

She’d mocked him, once, but more fool she. In the end, he was the only man she couldn’t beat.


	5. Molly

This was ridiculous. No, he was ridiculous; a selfish, arrogant child. She was tired of jumping at his demands, getting swept up by the sheer force of his personality; of being his errand-girl and all-purpose doormat.

Sherlock Holmes was more trouble than he was worth.

There, she’d said it. The next time he breezed into her morgue, she’d say it to his face. She was done fudging paperwork to get him body parts for experiments. She was done letting him manipulate her.

Yes, he had important work, but so did she, and… and…

And she’d wasted enough time on the fantasy that he’d ever notice her. To him, she was no different than a microscope, except he calibrated her with honeyed lies. She didn’t count, she never would, and it didn’t hurt, because she’d never been stupid enough to think anything could come of it, not really.

It was on the tip of her tongue when he swept through the door, all dark intensity and laser focus. 

But this time, he was different. He looked sad; vulnerable. He was cold, yes, but not heartless, and she was neither. And she realized she’d give him whatever he needed, whether or not he deserved, or even appreciated it. Because he was Sherlock Holmes and she was Molly Hooper. And he needed her. Always.


	6. Martha

She’d missed the stench. She’d missed sifting through body parts in the fridge. She’d even missed the holes in her poor walls. She’d missed hearing the violin; while he was gone, she couldn’t stand that instrument, because it wasn’t him, but it should’ve been. No, he hadn’t always played it at a reasonable hour, but old people don’t need that much sleep, anyway.

She’d missed the sound of giggling on the steps, the door slamming at all hours, and even the rows. She’d missed her boys.

Sherlock coming back was a miracle. But, he hadn’t come back whole. He needed another, vital piece, and John had… moved on. 

She couldn’t blame him, not really; yes he should have called more, but men were funny about grief. And without the doctor to fuss over him, or be yelled at, or amazed, Sherlock was backsliding; regressing into that sullen, lost little-boy-in-a-man’s-suit she’d met in Florida. She tried to make sure he wasn’t using again, but if Sherlock didn’t want something found, it couldn’t be found, at least not by a nosy landlady.

So, she made him tea, and stocked his fridge, and tried to engage him. He’d saved her, once, and she’d always be grateful, always want to return the favor. But she wasn’t enough. Even with her there, he was still alone.


	7. Mary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore Mary, she seems like a really interesting character, so I might re-do this one and put it a bit later in canon, but for right now, I just wanted to have Mary in here. I offer no appologies.

I liked Sherlock immediately. Of course I did, how couldn’t I?

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

First, I liked John. He was a grieving mess, all jagged edges, trying to put himself back together. If I handled him wrong, I’d cut myself, badly. But, I’ve always liked challenging and dangerous things; it’s why he and I fit together so well.

Well, one reason, at least. 

Anyway. I watched him, tried to help him, even, through the slow, painstaking trek back to the man he used to be. He daily amazes me. But there was always something, some crucial part, that was missing. Some spark that was gone. I wanted to believe that I could, in time, re-kindle it. But I know from bitter experience, sometimes things that are lost cannot be found again. That includes pieces of the heart; maybe, if I believed in such things, even pieces of the soul.

When Sherlock died before his eyes, John lost a part of himself he couldn’t replace or re-create. I was living in that vacuum with him. Always in a shadow.

John wasn’t in love with Sherlock, but a fool could see he loved the mad genius.

So, yes, I liked Sherlock right off. I couldn't not; I love John. And when John finally recognized him, John came alive!


End file.
